


Changeling Mine

by nirejseki



Category: DC's Legends of Tomorrow (TV), The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fae, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Child Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Prostitution, Implied/Referenced Underage Prostitution, Lewis Snart's A+ Parenting, Lewis is Going To Die, M/M, Revenge, Sexual Abuse, Size Difference, only the consensual stuff is explicit, pseudo archaic language, very very AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 18:07:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8023831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nirejseki/pseuds/nirejseki
Summary: "It's past nightfall, and you can't go now or the Hunt will get you."
"We'll have to chance it," Len says. There's nothing for it. "They hunt the wicked and the unwary, don't they? There must be more wicked than us out tonight."





	Changeling Mine

**Author's Note:**

> Mind the warnings! No, seriously, _mind the warnings!_

Above all things, Len knows this: it is his duty to protect Lisa. 

He scurries around all day to please his Father, slipping through cracks and lifting gold and silver where he can, copper and tin where he can't, because his Father's rage is terrible when he doesn't get what he wants, and Lisa is as thin and delicate as gossamer, and would not be able to withstand it. He cleans the house to ensure that it is acceptable to his Father's eye, though his fingers burn when he picks up certain things: the tankard, the fork, the candle-holder. He makes food and drink, and serves them as well, and if he is lucky his Father will only beat him with his fists or his bottle, not the iron poker that sits by the fire which Len fears more than death.

He vows not to let that poker strike Lisa, and he keeps that vow, though he cannot stop everything: the words, the fists. He tries so hard to please his Father, but he is not very good nor very lucky, so he often fails.

"You're not near as useful as they said you'd be," his Father spits at him, staring balefully down at the dinner Len has prepared. Len has never been good with cooking animal flesh - it turns his stomach to consume it, and Lisa can't have it at all, but something is better than nothing and all greens in the house go to Lisa - and he suspects he has burned the meal again. Lisa says stubbornly that she would rather live on dew than watch him beg their Father for scraps, but Len could not bear to see her starve, and so he puts aside whatever pride he might have had and he begs.

"I'm sorry," Len says, ducking his head, because Father likes the show of submission. "I will do better."

"Damn right you will," Father says, and belches loudly. "Riches aplenty, they said. Hah! Riches aplenty my ass. I must be the only one who has to live off scrapings and get served over-cooked charcoal. Where's my gold, I tell you? My palaces?"

"I'm sorry," Len says, though he has asked the other boys in the village, the ones who sneer at him for being of only middling height even as he passes what he thinks is his twentieth year and for turning pale whenever he walks by the blacksmith's, and they have told him that children are by and large small and helpless, like Lisa, and they bring with them no riches, and certainly no palaces. But his Father has always seemed certain that Len and Lisa would bring him such.

The boys in the town speak also of mothers, and Len has never known such a creature except by observation.

"Told me it'd be easy," his Father says, drinking more of the ale he favors, which makes him even meaner than usual but which Len has learned never to question. "Easy! And I'm sure easy it is, too, if I hadn't gotten such misbegotten get as the two of you." 

Len bows his head, acknowledging this as true. He has no riches but what he can steal - he cannot weave straw into gold, nor pluck gold from the sky, nor find it in the earth, though he has tried. Stealing he can do, to be sure, but one can only steal what travelers have, and no matter how wealthy his Father insists a given traveler must be, Len finds that they carry little gold, for their region has become known for banditry.

Their Father lives in a fine house, the finest in the village for which he is the Lord's man, responsible for keeping the peace and collecting the tax, and he has first pick of all the harvests that come to town to trade, but it is not a palace. It is not gold. Len has failed in his task, a task he never knew how to do or how to meet, and so his Father rages. 

Their Father has given them both one room in the fine house, the little one by the kitchen, and Len has bundled the one bed up high for Lisa, who sneezes every time she goes by the big iron cookpot in the main room. She balks and complains, but Len persists. He does not feel the cold, he tells her, and it is even mostly true. He says nothing about how the nails in the wooden floor ache his bones, how his gorge rises and his fingers blister when he pushes aside the iron cookpot to give himself enough room to sleep at the hearth. His fingers heal quick enough, though he has taken to keeping them wrapped because he burns them again so quickly the next day. It's worth it, for Lisa.

"At least your sister's growing up pretty enough," his Father says, and Len smiles, for he agrees. Lisa's hair is the color of the gold Len cannot weave, though it is darkening with age - aged gold, from an ancient trove, dark with hints of gleaming. Her eyes shine like moonlight, and her fingers are soft and move little birds through the air. She is gentle to animals, though she is fierce as a tomcat when one of the village boys says something to displease her. Len has refused to teach her to steal, though he suspects his Father may ask it of him eventually. 

"Didn't think she'd be," his Father says. "Two, they said; be sure to get two. One will do nothing but bedevil you, for they will have no cares, but get yourself two, and, why, you will fear nothing, for to threaten one ensures the compliance of the other. One small, one large, they said, but you've been a disappointment, boy, such a disappointment. You've brought me nothing but grief, you have. But she's pretty, she is."

Len bows his head once more, but his Father crooks his fingers and forward Len goes. His Father grasps Len's chin between his fingers and Len winces, for his father has taken to wearing a ring of gold. He had told his father that it was iron beneath the gilding, but his Father had said that until Len could bring him a pure one, he would have to make do. "You bring me no gold," his Father says, and Len would like to protest: he brought home three pieces of gold in yesterday from a wayward traveler's purse, and a full fourteen three days before from a chest bound for the capital, but he knows such words will fall on deaf ears. When Len brings home a chest as broad as a man, overflowing with gold and never emptying, then his Father might be pleased, but not a day sooner. "Yet that does not mean that you might not earn some, your sister and you, for you are yet quite fair."

Len does not understand, but he quivers before his Father as his face is turned this way and that. He is pale, that is true, but how does that create gold? 

"Bring your sister down," his Father orders. "I wish to see her as well."

Len will not bring Lisa down when his father has drunk so much; he is cruel and easily angered, and Lisa says he has a tendency to tug at her dress and demand to know where she got such finery when it should be obvious that Len stole it for her. It's not that fine, a simple silk slip, some lady's nightclothes, that Len had cut the bottom off of to fit for Lisa, but Lisa is tender and dislikes the rasp of wool. Len doesn't much like it either, but for all that his Father buys himself brocades and velvets with the gold Len brings him, Len himself is forbidden from wearing anything that might make the villagers angry or jealous.

"She is resting," he says instead. "And it is too late to wake her; I will bring her to see you tomorrow."

"Lazy bitch," his Father says with a scowl, and Len tenses, but his Father's scowl fades. "Though I supposed it's good that she already knows how to lie on her back all day." His Father brays with laughter.

Len does not understand the joke. 

"Is there anything else you wanted?" he asks instead. 

"More beer," his Father says, and Len winces. He had not expected his Father to drink so much, so quickly; they have only one mug's worth more.

"I can go to the village and get more," Len offers. 

"You didn't get any already?" his Father demands, face turning red. "Damn right you'll go and get - no," he says, cutting himself off. "It's past nightfall, and you can't go now or the Hunt will get you."

Len shudders; they hear the Hunt almost nightly, the flame-eyed dogs howling, the silver-hoofed horses braying, and the wild laughter of the Fae spirits that ride through the vale each night, seeking human prey. The village is warded as strong as can be, iron and blessed silver both, but there are enough unwary souls to feed the needs of the Hunt. But the harvest is always rich and plentiful, as if to compensate the villagefolk for living so close to the mouth of an Unseelie Court, and so the village persists. 

The Unseelie Court is said to be ruled by an aspect of Cernunnos, a flaming beast with a horned helm, mad and all-devouring like a wildfire, capable of riding the whole of the land in one night, kin to Herne the Hunter in his awful majesty. The locals have never named him, calling him only the Dreaded Lord, but a passing traveler, hearing of how those that went into the Unseelie Lord's realm would return a year and a day later and swear they'd only been gone an hour, called him by the name of one of his old gods, Kronos, a terrifying figure who bore a scythe so sharp it could cut the strands of time, and now the villagers sometimes called the Dreaded Lord that, too.

Len has heard many times the rule against going out after nightfall.

"Do we have anything left?" his Father demands, and Len brings him the last bottle of beer and a glug of the stronger stuff, which Father prefers to keep for the week-end. 

"Fine, I guess this will do. You should have gone to get more earlier, you waste of space," his Father says. Len was preoccupied cleaning the house and stealing a purse, per his Father's earlier orders, but he does not try to defend himself. He should have seen the supply running low and made time for it. "Get me the poker."

Len shudders, but does. His fingers burn as he wraps them around the poker, his palm turning red with agony, but he brings the poker to his Father. 

"Don't want to get your face," his Father says thoughtfully. "And your back might be an asset. Hold that poker with two hands, boy; don't just let it dangle."

Len does, both hands now burning, hives rising up where he has to hold it.

"Yes," his Father says. "That'll do it, I think. I won't beat you tonight, boy."

Len's eyes widen with surprise. He nods, thankful for the reprieve, and turns to put away the poker. 

"Don't put that away yet," his Father says. "You still need to be punished for your carelessness. Hold it till I tell you that you can stop."

Len holds it until his shoulder are shaking from the strain and the redness snakes out from his palms onto his wrists and arms like ugly, upraised veins, and tears of blood spill down his face.

"That's enough," his Father says. 

Len puts the poker away. "Thank you, Father," he says, not bothering to wipe his eyes clear. His Father likes to see that his punishments were effective.

"Thank me properly, you ungrateful spit," his Father says. "Kiss my boot and thank me for all I've done for you, all these years."

Len kneels and does, for he has long since put aside pride. His Father is a man, with all the needs and lusts of one, and he has no wife; Len serves that role, whether it be cleaning or cooking or this, too. He does not much like using his mouth, but he knows his hands are too sore to use them now. It is not his favorite chore, but luckily his Father only asks for it when he has drunk deeply, and his Father tends to sleep after it is done.

When his Father sleeps, Len washes his face and goes up to Lisa. She smiles when she sees him, her cheeks too thin for all that he feeds her as much as he can spare, but her joy is a balm to all Len's hurts.

"How was your day, Lenny?" she asks.

"Good," he says, for he would never tell her otherwise even if his Father had decided to beat him. "I got you a gift."

She claps in delight and holds out her hands.

Len gives her the dandelions he found earlier; they are crushed from being in his pocket, but they are still thick and good. Lisa crunches them between her teeth and laughs, and Len is pleased.

"Won't you join me?" Lisa says, patting the thin bed beside her. "Father needn't know."

Len shakes his head. "He said it was unseemly," he reminds Lisa. "Now that you're a young maiden." Father had announced as much on Lisa’s twelfth birthday, just passed. 

"I don't care," Lisa says. "Who sees me anyway?"

"I wouldn't want to disturb your rest," Len says firmly. "And I rise before the sun does to start my chores."

"Can't I help?" Lisa asks.

"No," Len says, because he would never permit it. It is his duty to protect Lisa. "You need to gather your strength to come downstairs tomorrow. Father has thought of another way to make gold."

"Oh, no," Lisa says sadly and Len nods. He would spare her if he only knew how.

"Would you like me to tell you a story?" Len offers. It is not his strength, stories: all the boys in the village seem to be able to do it better than he, a natural knack for inventing, but he has tried so hard and learned what he could, and he thinks he turns a decent tale now.

Lisa squeals happily and bundles up to listen. Len tells her of the Lark and the Nightingale, and of a marvelous feast they attend in a castle in the air, worms and fruits and little crawling bugs, and how they were so full and happy when they were done, they both sang all the way home, one to the Morning Star and one to the Evening Star, and how their descendants have done the same ever since.

Lisa sleeps.

Tasks for the day finally done, Len curls up on the wooden floor and sleeps as well.

The next morning he wakes and wraps his still-sore hands. Then he goes to clean the kitchen, to start the fire and begin preparations for breakfast. He boils the coffee his father swears by on days following drinking, and steals a thimbleful for Lisa. That done, he goes up and brushes Lisa's hair a hundred times until it's thick and shiny, and he binds it back so that it won't fall into her eyes. 

Then he returns to the kitchen and prepares breakfast, serving it to his groaning Father, who eats it with minimal complaints. "Would you like me to bring Lisa down?" Len says, holding the cup of coffee across the room from his Father.

"Later," his Father groans. "Later, damnit. Bring me the coffee."

Len does, satisfied. He heads out on chores shortly thereafter, bringing home a case of beer and more food for the night: bread, potatoes, peppers, and some meat. The grocer throws in an aging head of lettuce and a few florets of cauliflower as well, delighting Len; as they are not included in the bill, he will be able to feed them all to Lisa before preparing his Father's stew. 

He thanks the grocer enthusiastically. 

"You know, if you ever need help, you can come here, right?" the grocer asks. "My cousin's here; he's a traveler, most of the time. He's heading out of town soon, if you had any interest."

Len blinks. "No, my Father would never permit it," he says politely. 

"Of course," the grocer says hastily. "Wouldn't suggest otherwise. Just - something to think about. Do you know there's some blood on your shirt?"

Len had not. "That must be from my punishment yesterday," he says. "Sorry."

"No need to apologize," the grocer says. "Just - think about it. My cousin, I mean."

His Father stays in his office much of the day, speaking with some men from the village: merchants, hunters, money-men, men with hard faces and plenty of cash. He even speaks with the sharp-eyed man with the black sash, the representative of a particular family which is well known to be involved in all sorts of unsavory practices, but which is consequently both very rich and very influential. On his way out, the sharp-eyed man sees Len and calls for him to come over. He takes Len's chin between his fingers, just as Len's Father had the day before, turning it this way and that.

"Does your sister look like you?" the man asks.

"Yes, just like," Len says, puzzled. "She is my sister."

"Does she have your eyes, your cheeks?" the man persists. "Is she beautiful?"

"She is very beautiful," Len says, always pleased to discuss his sister. "Her eyes are like mine, yes, but she's far more lovely. Her hair falls to her waist and looks like dark gold; if she has but one flaw, it is only that she is so skinny."

"Skinny," the man says thoughtfully. "That's fine. Yes. That sounds fine."

Len watches him go with a frown.

In the evening, his Father calls Len into his office, telling him once again to fetch his sister. Len had hoped his Father would forget about his new plan, but his eyes glitter with avarice and he seems excited.

Len goes to get Lisa. He kneels by her bed and wraps her feet tightly with thick bandages, slipping on socks, and then adding slippers as well. She lets him, smiling indulgently, but he sees her wince a little as her feet touch the protruding metal nails on the floor. He guides her around the kitchen, avoiding the iron cookpot, but she still wrinkles her nose when they enter Father's office, likely at the iron candleholder there, or perhaps the iron poker still resting by the door like an unspoken threat.

"I forgot how lovely you were," Father says, motioning Lisa to come forward. He grabs her chin the way he did Len's and Len frowns. Lisa looks as uncomfortable as Len felt, and he doesn't like how his Father is looking at her: like he looks at his dinner, or at a pile of gold. Possessive, but not the way Len is of her. Almost like he's not even looking at her, but through her. "Yes, quite lovely. Pity you've lost the blonde, but you can't have everything."

"Yes, Father," Lisa says. Len steps forward to stand at her side. 

"How many lovers have you had?" their Father asks, not releasing her chin.

Lisa and Len both frown. It's a strangely worded question, when of course the answer is -

"None, Father," Lisa says, sounding confused. "I do not go out much anymore."

"Her legs are weak," Len adds, though he finds that she walks just fine once they get far enough out into the fields or the forest. It's the iron in the streets that hurts her and keeps her inside. But it has been some time since they have been out so far, and her sensitivity to the metal grows by the year, forcing her to stay in her bed.

"None?" their Father says skeptically. "Not one? No boys sneaking in through the window?"

"None, Father."

"And what about your brother, here?"

"What about him?" Lisa asks, frowning. Len frowns as well; his Father knows that he has no visitors, if that is the question. He is not much beloved by any in the town, and he does not like them overmuch in return.

"Have you fucked him?"

Both Len and Lisa start back at the baldness of the comment, noses wrinkling identically at the thought. "No!" they chorus, disgust lining their voices. Len cannot even imagine - little Lisa, his baby sister, his duty, his beloved - no. Certainly not. Does their Father truly think such a thing?

"Huh," their Father says. "Well, that's something, that's definitely something. Take off your shirt."

Lisa wraps her arms around her chest automatically. "Father!"

"Now, girl," their Father says, gesturing harshly. "We're all family here, aren't we? You've got nothing to hide."

Lisa reluctantly peels off the top part of her slip. Len looks at her and sees his sister, the same one he bathed when she was young, but some strange fear curls in his belly. It is not like his iron-pain, but something other. Something to do with the way his Father smiles and nods. "Not much there, but enough," he says. "And no lovers, too; that'll fetch a high price."

"Price for what?" Len asks. 

"You will need to adjust your schedule, boy," their Father says, ignoring the question, his eyes still fixed on Lisa as she rearranges her slip. "You'll need to get your chores done earlier."

"Dinner -"

"I'll get a cook to handle dinner," their Father says dismissively, as if he hadn't bitterly decried the expense as unnecessary as long as he had Len as recently as last month. "They'll probably be better than you - which isn't hard."

"Why?" Len asks cautiously.

"I've set it up with the Darbyinian family," their Father says. "They've suggested an excellent way of monetizing my assets, since your thieving isn't bringing in all that much. And you, of course," he nods at Lisa, "bring in nothing at all."

"But how?" Len asks. He dislikes the Darbyinian family. "We already do everything we can to bring in gold, Father."

"Not everything," their Father says, and the smile on his face is ugly. "You both can start entertaining guests in the evenings."

"Entertaining guests?" Lisa echoes, the confusion on her face clear and a match for Len's own. Neither of them much like people and people tend to find them off-putting; Len cannot see why that would be different or valuable. "What for?"

"You've both grown quite lovely," their Father says instead, a rare compliment, but one that grates on oversensitive nerves. He reaches out his hand to run his fingers down Lisa's cheek. "I'm not the only one who's noticed. I think you'll find that you're each quite popular, now - and that plenty of people will pay for the pleasure of your company." He emphasizes the word pleasure, and smiles even as Len's heart sinks like a stone. "And you'll do whatever it is they ask of you - provided it's what they paid for, of course."

"You want us to..." Lisa trails off, her eyes wide with horror. "With anyone who asks?!"

"With anyone who pays," their Father corrects her, smiling into the distance. "When I tell the Darbyinians that you're still pure, they'll probably auction it off; it will likely be worth a pretty penny -"

"I don't want to!" Lisa exclaims.

Their Father's smile drops off abruptly. "Did I ask what you wanted?" he snaps. "You haven't brought in anything for years, and your stupid brother can't carry your weight forever, you know. You want to blame anyone for this, blame yourself, or him; if he'd brought in enough, I wouldn't have had to resort to this."

"But -"

"There's worse than the poker, you know," their Father says, his voice turning dangerous. "I could have iron manacles made, tie you to the bed and tell the men to do as they like with you, and you'll be too busy weeping in pain to protest. Is that what you want? Should I send out for them now?"

"That's not necessary," Len cuts in, reaching out to wrap his hand around Lisa's wrist. "We won't make trouble."

"Good," their Father says, relaxing back. "See to it."

"Yes, Father," Len says, squeezing Lisa's wrist when she makes as if to protest. "Is there anything else?"

"Not for tonight," their Father says, already turning back to his accounts. "Bring me a beer."

"Yes, Father," Len says, and leads Lisa out of the room. He gestures for her to remain quiet and fetches the ale his father prefers, several bottles of it, and places it at the corner of his Father's desk.

When he returns to the living room, Lisa is pale with rage and terror.

"I won't," she hisses at him. "For you, Lenny, maybe, but for him? I won't!"

"You won't," Len agrees quietly, which cuts Lisa off before she starts on the arguments she has clearly already marshalled. He would have done it to protect Lisa, and not minded, but he would never let it touch her. Never. 

His first duty is to protect Lisa.

"Then what do we do?" she asks, his brave, adaptive sister.

"The grocer has a cousin, a traveler," Len says, the idea having come to him as he was standing in the office before. The man’s offer comes at a timely moment – had he known what Len’s Father had planned? "We will go to him, and get out of here."

"Father will chase."

"We will escape," Len says firmly, already thinking of how he could lead whatever dogs their Father sets upon them off Lisa's trail. It would be worth it, to know that she was safe. "But we need to go before Father does actually have those manacles made."

"When?" she asks fearfully. "The man will return tomorrow; I'm sure of it."

Len was equally sure. They were the last to be informed of their new status. 

"Tonight," he says.

"It's after sundown," Lisa points out. "What about the Hunt?"

"We'll have to chance it," Len says. There's nothing for it. "They hunt the wicked and the unwary, don't they? There must be more wicked than us out tonight."

"But we're rather unwary," Lisa points out. "Neither of us can carry the blessed iron horseshoes for long, even if there were any in the house."

Len makes a face. "We don't have a choice," he says. "Let's go."

Lisa nods and tucks her hand in his arm. "Let's go," she says. "Now."

His brave sister. Len's heart hurts at the thought of the pain that may lay before them for her; he will do what he can to ease it. But they will not stay and face unbearable pain for certain.

They do not stop for food or drink or even money; they simply slip out the front door, Len latching the door from the inside behind them, and they begin the familiar walk to the village, rendered unfamiliar by the whispering darkness around them.

It feels longer, too.

They've just made it to the oak tree that marks the halfway point, pausing to let Lisa rest her little-used legs, when they hear it. 

A long howl, shaking the earth beneath it, simultaneously low and sonorous like an earthquake and high and screeching like a screaming soul on its way to hell.

First there's only one, an elongated sound, the cry of a sentry; but within a few moments it is joined by another, then another, until it is a whole choir of damnation ringing through the night air.

The hounds of the Hunt.

"Lisa, up," Len says grimly. They have the moon, which is half-full, but so do the hounds, and the hounds can smell them, too. Lisa scrambles to her feet and takes Len's hand.

He looks around them - they're precisely at the halfway mark, making it as futile to back as forward, and even if they ran pell-mell towards the village gate, the villagers would never open it for them with the Hunt on their heels. Len had always planned to creep in to slip a door open for Lisa; that was still the best plan.

But first they need to evade the Hunt.

"Come with me," he says, and tugs Lisa towards the darkened forest that shades both sides of the pathway to the village.

"We'll be lost if we leave the path," Lisa whispers, frightened, but she follows him regardless.

"Maybe," Len says. "But better the chance of death than the certainty of it."

That seems to be tonight's motto, he reflects grimly, and finds the first mud-puddle he can locate, splattering himself with the stuff and coating Lisa as well. She submits herself to the treatment with good grace, rising and stumbling after him in the dark.

Len leads them forwards and back, side to side, up a tree and down the other side of a river; they wade back upstream along one rivulet and sail a rapidly constructed bark-raft downstream another.

And still the hounds follow them. 

The barking comes from one way, the ringing of the silver-clad hooves against stone from another, and all around them is the laughter of the Fae. It's anywhere from high and bell-like to dark and ominous, from mad cackles to a deep belly laugh, so fresh and sincere that it makes Len's lips twitch up despite the danger.

He's carrying Lisa on his back by now, her arms wrapped around his neck, and they're so close to safety that he can see it, smell it, but they will never make it across the field between the forest and the village gates in time.

He tries, pushing burning legs beyond their limits, but he's only a quarter of the way across the field when the Hunt bursts out from the woods in their full glory and grandeur. Horses as black as night with gleaming silver manes streaming out behind them, festooned with ribbons and sashes of fabric as dark red as heart's blood, clearly colored even in the moonlight, their withers slick with sweat; hounds of every size and shape, eyes blazing like burning coals, red tongues lolling out of their mouths as they dart through the legs of the horses, barking and yipping and snapping with bone-white teeth; flags and heraldry snapping in the breeze with arcane symbols no human has seen and lived to tell the tale.

And all that was nothing compared to the Hunt itself: Fae of every form that could be imagined. Hags like old women, features twisted and haggard in wicked grins; tree-creatures made of vines and branches, eyes sunken hollows through which something unseen seems to move; creatures that appear half-humanoid until something bubbles out through them, mouths where they oughtn’t be, needle-sharp teeth in their eyes, gaping mouths in their hands and stomach; creatures more viscera than flesh, their eyes and mouths little more than jagged slashes that bleed sluggishly. Wolf-men still wearing the haggard remains of their human flesh like a cloak; the skeletal, starved blood-drinkers, long tongues licking split lips and tube-like throats swallowing in anticipation; chimeras stitched together from a dozen creatures or more: spider and scorpion and snake competing with bear and rabid dog, foaming at the mouth and gnashing their teeth.

And before them all, the knights of the Unseelie Court: men and women both, seven feet at the shortest, perfect like statues carved from marble and alabaster, cruelty in their lips and eyes; they are gaily clad in their colors, dark reds and sickly yellows, bone white and sinew brown, vein blue and the fetid greens of putrefying flesh, wearing silver armor and perched on their horses like they were riding out of a nightmare. And they are led by their master, the Dread One, he who the men of the village call Kronos.

His shoulders are broad and massive, his helm a literal wash of flame from which two gigantic horns arise. Inside the flickering flame, two slits of darkness are all that can be seen, no nose, no mouth. His armor is the dark red that is the primary color of his court, his breastplate engraved with images so fine that the eye cannot focus on any one piece and can only see the whole. His arms are covered in chainmail that seems as fine as spiderweb and as strong as steel. He wears a cape of dark feathers that drip blood as if newly plucked from the source, though if that be eagle or angel, it cannot be said. 

Len turns to face them, keeping Lisa on his back, and prepares to die as they rush towards him, Kronos raising a hand -

He feels Lisa close her eyes tightly and dig her chin into his shoulder -

And suddenly Kronos makes a gesture and the bellowing echo of a ram's horn trumpets across the clearing, and the Hunt pulls itself back, streaming _around_ Len and Lisa instead of through them, turning inwards until they are the center of the maddening, jeering crowd.

Kronos leads his horse, a massive stallion, forward from the crowd, raises his hands and -

Applauds?

"You've led my Court and I on a merry chase," he says, his voice rumbling and deep like the distant thunder of an onrushing storm. "I thank you for the challenge, one we have not had in years. You're cleverer than most humans, and your mind splits in more twisted paths than the most fearful rabbit's burrow." He sounds approving. "To what do we owe the pleasure?"

Len shakes himself out of his stupor. "I'm glad you enjoyed it," he says slowly, carefully, politely. "It is our pleasure to please you."

"The stratagem by the pond might've worked to draw us on the wrong path, if your sister's feet had not started bleeding," Kronos says. "It was a close one. Why did you not cast concealment, or heal her? It would have won you the game."

Len does not understand; Kronos' words are as foreign as his Father's from earlier. 

Before he can gather himself to speak, however, Lisa, his brave sister, his flower, his heart, raises her head from his shoulder and says, with all the scorn she can muster, "A game! A fine game indeed, for the Hunt to play - do you intend to take us or not? If yes, do us to the honor of not boring us to death first; if not, then let us be on our way!"

The crowd moves amongst itself, murmurs and hisses breaking out between then, the cruel mouths of the Fae knights pull down into frowns. 

"You would come unto my land and face my Hunt, and you will not do us the honor of dining with us?" Kronos asks, his voice deep and menacing.

"We don't eat flesh if we can help it," Len says inanely. It's not so much that he doesn't want to accept the invitation and avoid insulting his dreadful host, but they can't, not if they are to escape the village before their Father descends upon them in a rage. 

"Of course not," Kronos sounds almost - affronted? Like he thinks Len is insulting his hospitality or something. "I will have the finest moondrops collected for you, seasoned with frost's first dew; I will serve you forget-me-nots wrapped in honeycomb and bound with thistle; I will put before you a thick steak of a sunflower's heart, roasted in the midsummer sun with acorns and truffles, if you come to sit at my table." 

Len's mouth fills with saliva just at the sound of it, though he's never had anything even remotely similar. He has to swallow just to clear his mouth enough to speak. "I would accept," he says carefully, not wanting to offend Kronos. "But my sister and I must be on our way, lest we not find our way again."

"There is nothing to fear in the Underhill," Kronos says. "What fear you here?"

"Plenty of things," Lisa mutters petulantly into Len's shoulder. "Are you inviting us to dinner or to be dinner, anyhow? I heard you people like to fatten up your prey first."

"Lise!" Len hisses at her.

"I obey the host laws," Kronos says coldly. "You will be safe in my domain."

"Yes, we understand," Len says soothingly, appeasing, then he hesitates. "Could you explain what, exactly, the host laws constitute? Just so we're all on the same page."

More murmurs from the crowd, louder this time. Len thinks he may have made a mistake, though he doesn't know what.

"You don't know the host laws?" Kronos says, his voice booming. "What Court has you, and where is the homesteading of your sire? I would have words with aught that teaches not the host laws."

"We don't have a Court," Len says, confused. "And our sire - if you mean our Father, well, he lives a way back thataway, not a mile hence by the trail."

"A mile hence is still within my Court," Kronos objects. "Where in the Underhill is his homesteading?"

"He doesn't live Underhill," Len explains. "He lives in the house on the hill - the big one, with the padlocked gate out front? You can't have missed it; we hear you go by all the time."

"Not Underhill?" Kronos says blankly. "Your sire is human?"

"Well, yes," Len says. "Seems reasonable enough, don't you think?"

The murmurs grow louder and louder - then Kronos raises a hand and the noise cuts off abruptly, as if it's never been. Even the dogs are silent, the horses making no sound, and the only thing that can be heard is the wind rustling through the trees and Len's own rapidly beating heart.

"Children of the frost and moon," Kronos says. "Do you think you are men?"

"I don't think I'm quite old enough by the laws of this country, though I suppose it varies," Len muses. "And my sister here would never be a man at all, of course."

"You think -" Kronos starts, then pauses, his slitted eyes scanning both of them from head to toe. "You think you are iron-born, scions of the race of Man."

"I guess?" Len says hesitantly. "Human, yes; if that's what you mean."

Kronos goes quiet for a long moment, the fingers of his heavy gauntlets clenching around his reins. "Who," he finally says, and his voice is creaking with rage; if before it was the coming storm, this is the very fury of the tempest itself. "Who has done this to you?"

Len takes a step back despite himself, frightened by Kronos' rage despite the fact that it does not seemed aimed at him or Lisa; Lisa's arms tighten around him, an echo of his own fright. 

"I don't know what you mean," Len says. 

Suddenly Kronos releases his reins, swinging off his stallion and landing heavily on the ground. His legs are covered with the same chain-and-scale armor as his massive torso, his boots clawed at the heel and point. He raises his hands to his helm and slowly slips his fingers beneath the jawline.

Len's breath catches in his throat. 

Kronos removes his flaming helm.

Beneath, his face is like that of a man, or some close cousin of man, if man had a head shorn of all hair, reddened as if by some internal flame, eyes of glowing gold, ears that rise to sharp points, and jagged teeth that spread in a terrible smile. He’s terrifying, eerie and beautiful and monstrous all at the same time.

"You gaze upon me," he says, and his voice is just as sonorous without the helm, smoother, like the darkest parts of the night, intimate and deep. "And you yet live. You are not men, frost-children. No human man sired you, no human woman bore you; there is no cold iron in your blood."

"No human sire," Len echoes, strange feelings churning in his gut. "Are - are you sure?"

"Quite sure," Kronos says.

"Wait, so our Father isn't?" Lisa says excitedly. "Our Father, I mean? Does that mean we don't have to listen to him?"

Len clutches at Lisa's feet. "She's still my sister, though, right?" he says desperately, because that much must still be true, he knows it’s true in his very bones. That is part of who he is in his soul, that Lisa is his sister. "She is; she is."

"She is," Kronos says, nodding. "You are frost-children; hands shaped you, large and small, from the scrapings of the first breath of winter upon the land when it falls under the first full moon; for each of you, a gold coin was tossed into a wishing-well and left there a fortnight, and then put into your hearts. Your only kin but for each other is the frost that bore you and the well that birthed you, and they have no claim on you. You are kin, do not doubt it. It is old magic, an ancient working, and it is clear to any who look upon you that you share blood."

"We're not Father's children," Len says slowly, tasting the words as he says them, swaying back and forth as the idea hits him slowly but inescapably, a tidal wave rolling inexorably forward towards the shore, wrapping around him and pulling him under, pouring down his throat until it fills his belly and remakes him from head to toe. "We're not Father's. We're not -"

Kronos has drawn closer at some point, until he is standing right before Len, his brow furrowed in concern. "Frost-child?" he says, almost tentatively – strange, in such a fearsome creature.

Len has started shaking, he notes distantly, his tired legs knocking together even as his fingers dig into Lisa's flesh as if holding on to sanity by his fingertips. He looks up into Kronos' golden eyes. 

"Is that why I could never make him happy?" he ask plaintively, and the last thing he sees before he collapses is Kronos' face twisting in terrible rage.

\----

Len wakes in degrees, which has never happened before. The world around him smells sweet and fresh, like the one time he fell asleep in a summer field, only better, somehow.

He is reluctant to open his eyes, wanting to stay in that doze forever, but he knows he has duties to attend to, and so he does.

He is in a room he has never seen before. The walls are cream and rosewood, soft but not feminine, austere without being stark. The bed he is on, the largest he has ever seen, larger even than Father's, big enough for both him and Lisa three times over with ease, is all white damask, and as he rises, white rose petals scatter around him in a soft rain. 

Len is struck, abruptly, by the fact that he is in no pain. It has been so long since his fingers were unburnt, his back unbent, his eyes sore and his feet sorer, his stomach twisting from hunger, that he had almost forgotten what it was like. It feels...light. Like light shining in through a window in the spring, beautiful but not heavy. 

"Lisa?" he calls tremendously. He does not know if he wishes for her to answer his call; if he is dead, as he almost suspects he is, then he would rather she be alive, but if he is alive, it is his duty to find and protect her. 

The door is pushed open and Lisa runs inside, beaming and crying, "Lenny! Lenny!" with her arms outstretched. She's cleaned off the mud he covered her with in their effort to fool the Hunt, bathed clean and smelling sweet; she's wearing a dress of clean white and shimmering yellow-gold, a ribbon of the same color threaded through her hair. Her feet are bare, but she stands tall and proud without aid; her cheeks are full and pink.

Len's throat is heavy as if something sticky has gotten stuck in it, a heavy knot of it, and no amount of swallowing seems to make it go away.

"Lisa," he breathes, and opens his arms to her. She dashes forward and hops upon the bed, curling into his arms.

Coming in through the door behind Lisa is Kronos. He no longer wears his dark red armor, opting for a slate grey shirt that hangs open in the front, revealing a tantalizing hint of flesh at his throat, and heavy pants of dark tan.

Kronos doesn't fit the room at all, not like Lisa does, for all that Len is increasingly sure the room belongs to him. Kronos is too big, too strong, too intimidating; even his choice of colors are too deep and dark to match the room, for all that he has clearly conscientiously chosen the lightest of his array. He meets Len's eyes and glances away almost shyly.

"I see you're awake," he says. "I bid you welcome. I would have asked permission before taking you to my domain, but you had been much poisoned by cold iron and were greatly weakened; my best men have spent several long days leeching it from your body."

"Days?" Len echoes.

"You scared me!" Lisa says, but her tone is light. "Mick said you would be okay, though, and look - you are!"

"Mick?"

Lisa points at Kronos, who coughs. "A childhood nickname, ere I came to the throne," he explains. "I thought it would please your sister. My real name is -"

"No, I like Mick," Len interrupts. He may not know much about the Fae - not as much as he suspects he's going to need to know - but even he knows that the giving of a true name means something, and he suddenly, overwhelmingly doesn't want that something to be pity. 

Mick looks at him closely before nodding slowly, pleased smile quirking his lips up a little. "Mick it is, then. And what should I call you?"

"Len is fine," Len says honestly. 

"Len, then," Mick says, bowing a little; a grand, courtly gesture, but it's a little rusty, like Mick hasn't had to do it in a while, and that makes Len smile. "Do you have any questions for me?"

"Sure," Len drawls, leaning back on the pillow a little, Lisa still in his arms. "Who did your interior decorating? Because I've gotta tell you, this room doesn't really scream 'you' to me."

Mick looks entirely dumbfounded; Len's pretty sure he expected something a bit more profound or fundamental or serious, but Len lives to subvert people's expectations of him - and for all that he does seem to be a wide-eyed naif in this world, he won't be caught dead acting like it.

Mick seems to absorb Len's words for a moment, chewing them over, and then he starts to laugh. Turns out that sincere belly laugh in the forest, the one that had made Len smile, was Mick's; this time, Len has no reason to keep that smile from spreading over his face. 

"It's mine," Mick finally says. "But it's not for me; we keep it for the Seelie Court, when they send their ambassadors to visit. They like pure things, light things; not like us Unseelie. The rest of the palace is - I guess you'd say it screams 'me' a little bit more."

"Is it on fire, then?" Len asks innocently, batting his eyelashes.

Mick chokes a little, then laughs again, sounding surprised. "Some of it," he admits gamely. "Where'd you get that sense of humor, Len? I'm given to understand that most of you Seelie don't really have one by birth."

"In that case, this is the result of hard work and effort," Len drawls. "Go me."

"Are we Seelie, then?" Lisa asks, pulling away from Len and spreading her skirts around conscientiously. "What's that mean?"

"Well, technically, it just means the Court that you're loyal to, your inclination and whatnot. Seelie's the court of heroes, Unseelie's the court of villains," Mick explains, drawing close to the bed, though he only sits down when Len gestures for him to do so. "But certain types of Fae tend to go one way or the other: the wolves, vampires, banshees, night-mares, kelpies, hags, red-hats, they belong to me and mine; the dryads, nereids, unicorns, selkies bright, cat-men, brownies, phoenixes and flower-children, they go to the Seelie court. And the high elves, of course, split right down the middle between the two."

"You're an elf, right?" Lisa asks, bouncing on the bed a little.

"That I am," Mick says. "I'm a Lord of Faerie, an elf-mage." He holds up a hand and flame flickers up from his fingers. "I specialize in fire, as your brother so cleverly deduced."

"And what about us?" Lisa asks.

"Frost-children are quite rare, even among the Fae. You’re pure wild magic and so you’re not bound by anything," Mick says. "But your kind mostly go with the Seelie. S'why I thought you'd like this room."

"It's nice," Len says noncommittally. "Might like to see the others before I give you a final opinion."

Mick's eyes go round and a great big smile breaks out over his face, sharp, jagged teeth and all, as he hears what Len's saying-not-saying. He jumps to his feet. "Let me show you around," he says excitedly. "There's so much to see - and you have so much to learn."

Lisa bounces off the bed; Len follows at a more sedate pace, testing his limbs and his flexibility and finding himself far more nimble than he remembered being. Though he also now distinctly remembers something about moondrops and sunflowers... "How about breakfast?" he asks, stomach grumbling.

Mick chuckles and leads the way. The palace does change as they leave the suite Len had been given: dark, shining wood and stone replace the airy lightness, though there is still more than enough light to see by. They end up in a comparatively small dining room, a private one that would still feed twelve or so at most, and on that table a feast is already laid out. Bowls of sugar-encrusted petals, balls of fresh seed held together in a bun with crystalized amber honey and dotted with raspberries, fresh dandelion stalks wrapped up with a ribbon, full orchid blooms drizzled in some sort of sauce, a platter of freshly picked nasturtiums interspersed with poached plums...

Len goes quiet in reverence. It looks _so good_. 

"Will you eat at my table?" Mick asks, looking a little uncertain.

"Yes," Len says firmly; he doesn't care if it's a Faerie trap or some horrific breach of protocol, Mick has been kind to them and he's not going to refuse now. Besides, if it's been days, Lisa's likely already eaten some, and he'd never leave her to face a trap alone. Len smiles at Mick, whose cheeks flush a little for some reason, and sits down at the table. "What's good?"

"Those are my favorite!" Lisa says, pointing at the nasturtiums. 

"Then you should have them," Len says, passing her the platter. "Go ahead," he adds, seeing her hesitate. "I'll have some of what you leave behind. I'm sure Mick has more if we need it." He glances at Mick, who nods.

Lisa beams and digs in, wielding a golden fork that shines in her hand like it's her birthright. 

For his part, Len carefully takes a petal and plops it into his mouth, the sugar sweetening the mild flavor of the blossom. It's earthy and mellow, sweet without being cloying, a bright burst on the tongue. He closes his eyes, which suddenly sting and fill with tears for no reason; it's so good, it's delicious, and he has been hungry for so long, forced to live off the burnt scraps of boiled flesh...

"Hey." Mick's voice cuts through Len's reverie and Len opens his eyes to see Mick leaning forward, holding a seed-bun out as an offering. "Try this, Len. It's filling, and you're far too thin."

Instead of taking it from Mick's proffered hand, Len leans forward and fastens his teeth around it, biting down on it and letting his eyes slide half-shut with a moan as he tastes it: filling, yes, and savory besides, crunchy with seed and lit up with fresh raspberries, giving way easily before his teeth and he lifts his hands to cup the seed-bun protectively, wrapping around Mick's frozen hand.

Mick's eyes have gone wide again and he seems strangely stiff. "You like that, huh?" he asks blankly, as if unaware that he's speaking. 

If Len had been trying to get something out of Mick, he might've continued - run his fingers up Mick's wrist, smiled coquettishly, something he's never done before but is suddenly tempted to do - but he's actually rather hungry, so he takes the bun from Mick's hand and shoves the rest of it into his mouth like an over-ambitious squirrel. "Yeshh," he says firmly.

Mick gives a bark of delighted laughter, and Lisa looks up from her plums with a fierce but loving scowl. "Lenny, don't be silly," she scolds. "Eat!"

Len turns himself to the serious business of eating as Lisa chatters on of how she’s had full run of the Court these last few days, how everyone adores her and protects her. Every dish on the table is a revelation in moans and licks of his fingers to chase the delicious flavors, which are like color bursting into a world of muted greys.

"Excuse me a moment," Mick says in a strangled voice, still staring at Len, then dashes out.

Len frowns a bit, wondering what was so pressing, but Lisa is pressing for him to try her favorite dish, and he's distracted. He finds that his favorite is a cinammony, subtly orange-flavored crocus, served alongside some mashed yuca root encrusted with goldenflower blossoms. He drinks a golden juice that Lisa tells him is made from honeysuckle and listens as she rambles on about the wonders of Underhill: baths in crystal streams that can be warmed just like a tub any time you like, flittering little will-o-wisps that fetch things, new dresses made of woven bark so fine it makes silk ashamed to stand beside it (she makes him feel the hem of her new dress, which he obediently does and makes approving sounds - it is delightfully soft). She leads him back to his room and makes him change into something new, shedding his (cleaned) scratchy wool and badly made linen for a soft sweater of dark blue, as fuzzy as a spring lamb or a dandelion puff and ribbed leggings of dark grey which fit his hips perfectly but still seem to have room for pockets everywhere. 

He momentarily hesitates over a flowing skirt made of interlocking petals – it’s black, but it still shimmers with the glorious iridescence of a rainbow and it falls over his fingers like a waterfall of smooth scales – but decides he'd better ask first. Father had beaten him the first and thus far only time he'd tried to wear a skirt; he thinks Mick will be different, but he's not sure. 

He lets Lisa lead him by the hand to Mick's throne room. It seems that he is already seeing to the business of the day - Len is a little disappointed that Mick's abrupt departure earlier had been related to work - but watching Mick in his element is worth it. He sits on a great throne of blacked silver, adored with fire opals, and silvered skulls of all sizes are scattered before his feet: as small as a mouse and as large as a horse. Above his head arches a canopy of bleached-white bone, scattered with sharp ridges that remind Len of nothing so much as sharp tooth and fang -

Len pauses and tilts his head, readjusting his perspective of it.

The canopy is the hallowed out skull of a massive dragon, it's jaws gaping wide.

_Nice._

Mick is currently settling a dispute between two bickering naga, coiled snake-women hissing insults at each other, and he listens to both before roaring out a verdict which makes them shrink before him and flee in opposite directions, but which - judging from the expressions on each of their faces that Len can see as they slither rapidly away - makes each of them feel as though they got the better deal.

Len finds himself laughing and is surprised by the sound. 

Mick turns to look in their direction and the stormy expression which clouded his brow lifts immediately. "Len," he says, rising up - he's wearing the same clothing as before, but he's thrown on his cloak of feathers and he looks stunning. "I - wow. You, uh, changed - I mean, you look good. Real good."

Len looks down at his relatively simple attire, which boasts nothing of the grandeur of much of the Court around him: no ribbons, no jewels, no sashes, no medals, and wonders at Mick's comment. He doesn't even have Lisa's pure beauty, that makes all she wears into a dress fit for a queen.

"Thanks," he says anyway, and comes forward towards Mick even as Lisa flits off into the crowd, chasing down a kelpie and begging for a ride, which makes the blushing horse-man stammer before he consents. 

Mick offers his broad hand and Len puts his own - small, pale, thin, delicate from too much work and not enough food - in his. It's a sad contrast, to Len's mind, but Mick swallows a little and runs his thumb over the back of Len's hand.

"What can I show you today, Len?" he asks, letting that deep voice of his run over the name like a caress and making Len shiver a little.

"You said something about fire?" Len asks.

Mick beams. "My favorite - one of my favorite things in the world," he corrects himself. "Are you sure? I don't want to bore you."

"I'm sure," Len says, smiling; if it makes Mick look like that, he definitely wants to see it.

Mick tugs a little on Len's hand and leads him off. He doesn't let go of Len's hand as they walk, which Len - doesn't mind at all, really. 

"My Court is the gathering place for my demesne," Mick explains as they go. "We Hunt, of course, but there's also the matter of justice appeals, challenges, duels, assignations, arrangements for war -"

"You arrange those?"

"Well, they certainly aren't happening on my territory without proper permission," Mick says, voice smug. 

"How did you become Lord of this territory?" Len asks, curious. Mick is big and broad-shouldered, his towering height well in excess of Len's, but he's not so different as to explain the clear and easy dominance by which he rules his land, the way the creeping and crawling members of the Court skitter into shadow as they seem him coming, abasing themselves in respect and jockeying to please him. Several offer up gifts to Mick or, when he ignores them, to Len.

Len examines several with a wrinkled nose, unsure if he's supposed to accept them and declining with alacrity anything that stinks of flesh, but he does end up accepting a gift of cobweb-balls on a skewer of hazelnut thorn. It's chewy, and the crunch of the thorn at the center adds a little kick to it. Mick nods approvingly at the dearg due that offered it up; it squeaks in pleasure and runs off.

"I mostly killed people," Mick answers bluntly. "Lots and lots of people; my fires burn hotter than all the others, and none can stand before me for long; so I am the Lord."

"And what of the Seelie Courts?"

"They have different election methods, I'm given to understand," Mick says. "They're heroes there, after all; their Court is filled with song and dance, fair ladies and beautiful men, softness and valor both. You'd get to play to your heart's content on their streams or debate in their halls of justice, or go out arrayed in armor to punish evildoers." He coughs. "Here, we mostly fight, or steal, or cause mischief to man; it's not quite as - intellectual."

Len considers this as they walk, then purposefully turns his hand into Mick's, lacing their fingers together. "I like stealing," he tells Mick, who looks flatteringly surprised. "It's one of my favorite things to do. I might want to see their Court, these heroes, but I'm not really one for - justice, really."

Mick turns and looks Len up and down.

"Now will you stop trying to sell me on them?" Len adds, smirking as Mick flushes a little.

"Frost-children are rare, as I've said," Mick says. "I've only seen them from a distance, really, and none were as - you're very beautiful."

"I'm no Lisa," Len points out, but he's charmed. 

"Lisa's a child," Mick says firmly. "With all the charms of childhood. You - you'll grow like a sunflower now that you're free of iron, but you're no child. And you are so beautiful I can scarcely believe you're real. Like a snowflake, suspended in midair."

"You're not half bad yourself," Len says, squeezing Mick's hand. 

Mick ducks his head, smiling, and then he sees something ahead; his head jerks up and his eyes glow with pleasure. "These," he says, striding ahead with Len trotting along to keep up, "are my fire pits."

They are at a balcony, a protruding lip over a vast chasm filled with flames that lick the walls in an attempt to climb up and devour them. There is a sea, there, at the bottom, a molten sea of black and red and gold and other colors besides, burning the very air above it as it slides around in thick, molasses-like waves. The surface ripples as fire-serpents slither through the molten metal surface, their fins and horns barely breaching the surface; salamanders and firedrakes lounge by the sea, flickering their tongues out to smell the boiling air, their sightless eyes scanning the land around them with proprietary pride.

"It's _beautiful_ ," Len breathes, dropping Mick's hand and stepping forward to get a better look. Leaning across the railing, raising himself on his toes to do so, he feels the backdraft of heat rising on his face, his cheeks flushing in response. The creatures down there glitter like precious gems, and he sees now that there are such gems there as well; they crunch them between their strong jaws, glowing rubies and shining diamonds.

He turns to Mick, face alight with wonder and discovery, and sees Mick standing slack-jawed with awe, eyes fixed on Len.

"I thought," Mick says slowly, eyes fixed on Len's reddened cheeks, Len's lips, taking a step forward, crowding Len in on the balcony. "I thought that -"

"You thought?" Len asks, voice suddenly breathy, like something has stolen the air in his lungs away, something warm and good. Mick is standing near enough to touch, near enough that Len would have to make an effort to get away.

Len has no interest in such efforts.

"I thought we'd bring your Father here," Mick says. "After I summon the Hunt and we come in force against him, and for his crimes not even the Seelie will stand against us, I thought we would bring him here and watch him burn."

Len swallows and Mick reaches down, hoisting Len up onto the balcony, the fires of the pit warm against Len's back. Len spreads his legs and Mick steps forward again, stepping between them, and Len wraps them around Mick's solid waist. He puts his hands on Mick's shoulders for balance, staring straight into Mick's glowing eyes.

"We'll call out the Hunt," Mick continues. "All the creatures of the dark and the deep will be at your command, and you by my side, and we will ring the bells and sound the horns, and we will batter his doors until they are no more, though iron bars the way."

He leans forward until his face is only centimeters away from Len's, his breath as hot as the flames. Len's breath is coming fast, his eyes are wide, he knows it.

"He will run, your human Father; he will flee in terror before us, and we will give chase. When his legs give out and his heart is close to bursting with fear, when he has thrown himself at our feet and begged for his life, when he has sworn to us every promise mortal man can make, then I will give him to you as your prize, my frost-child, and we will make our way here, and the dragons and drakes will crack his bones between their teeth, the heat blackening his flesh, even as the very molten rock slides into his throat and drowns him."

Len makes an inarticulate cry and throws his arms around Mick's neck, pulling the elf down and pressing his lips against his own. Mick surges forward in return, his hands, hot like brands, spread on Len's back, the back of his head, and he kisses Len, his tongue in Len's mouth, again and again and again until Len's head is spinning with delight.

They break apart. 

Len's lips are bright red and swollen, he can feel it as he runs his tongue over them, chasing the taste of Mick. "Yes," he says, meeting Mick's gaze. " _Yes_. Let's do that."

"My bloodthirsty little frost child," Mick says, smiling. "Just wait till I show you what you can do."

"Show me," Len urges, his body alight in a way it's never been before, when everything was grey and dull and hopeless. "Show me _everything_."

He reaches for Mick again and Mick pulls him until Len's plastered against his body, holding him easily, one hand cupped under Len's ass and one between his shoulder blades, staggering back from the ledge. 

"You'll breath frost," Mick is whispering even as he carries Len away, Len kissing his jaw, his neck, whatever he can reach. "You'll summon storms of ice and leave frozen statues in your wake; you capture moonbeams in your hands and cast them forth as an arrow of pure silver light. You can freeze the depths of the deepest well, you can summon water from the very air. We have nothing in common, you and I; I am a fire-creature, scraping my way up from the ashes, and you are a piece of heaven which has stepped down to dally with me for a time -"

"Forever," Len says recklessly, adrenaline flooding his veins and letting him make promises that he knows are foolish, but they feel good. More than good. They feel _right_. "Not for a time. You'll be mine, and I'll have you _forever_."

Mick groans and slams Len against a wall, grinding closer, hot and hard beneath his clothing. "They say frost-children are the most steadfast of all the creatures of the Fae, in trade for the ephemerality of their birth," he pants in Len's ear. "They say their tempers are smooth and their minds treacherous, their whims fickle and their feet restless in search of adventure - and their hearts, once given, are given forever, and he who holds their heart is like unto a god. Don't give your heart to me, Len; not until you see your options. You’ve only just started to see the world as you ought to, with the whole of Underhill itself your birthright and Overhill your playground."

"You have my heart," Len says fiercely, knowing in his bones, in that place where Lisa lives, that he lost his heart long before Mick's protests or even his offers of hospitality. He lost it in the darkness of the forest, covered in mud and panting with exhaustion, sick with iron and bearing his sister on his back, when he heard Mick laugh, free and delighted and wild, for the first time. "I don't care about the rest. It's yours - now stop keeping me waiting and take the rest of me."

Mick growls and pulls one hand free, waving it in some arcane gesture, and the world twists around them, the Court itself reshaping under the influence of Mick's mighty will, the corridor they are in fading in the blink of an eye and a bedroom of dark wood and flame-colored fabric, soft and light as a cloud, appears in its place.

They stagger to the bed, the two of them, Len coiled around Mick like a snake, his fingers flitting over Mick’s shoulders and sliding under where he can, and they fall upon the bed together. Len rolls them easily, Mick letting himself be pushed, until he is perched on Mick, his hands pressed down on Mick’s chest and he can lean down and kiss the man.

He pushes Mick’s shirt up, fingers sliding under, and Mick hisses and arches up to meet his touch; Len thinks a thought and his hands grow cold and rimed with frost, which hisses into steam when he traces figures into Mick’s flesh and which causes Mick to thrash wildly beneath him. 

“I want you,” Mick pants. “I want you, _I want you_ …”

“And you shall have me,” Len says, smiling, and peels off his sweater. He’s scarcely tossed it aside when Mick eels up from under him, pressing his back down on the soft sheets, his hands on Len’s hips as he slowly tugs down Len’s pants until Len is entirely bare beneath him, flush filling his cheeks as Mick surveys him with glowing eyes.

“You’re beautiful,” Mick says, so earnestly that Len believes that in Mick’s eyes, he really is. Mick strips his own clothing, revealing a frame that’s tall and broad, huge in comparison to Len’s still-human height, his growth stunted by years spent in the lands of iron and steel. Mick’s two, three heads taller than Len, his shoulders so wide that Len could not embrace him and have his hands meet behind, his muscles firm and strong, his cock red and full. Len reaches out and wraps his hands around it, both hands, and Mick shudders as he does.

“You’ll have me,” Len says, pleased by the thought, and smiles up at Mick through his eyelashes. “The first, and perhaps the last, unless we two otherwise agree.”

Mick groans and falls upon Len, kissing him wildly, his mouth, his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. “You can’t say that,” he growls into Len’s body. “You can’t – you can’t – how am I to let you go if I know that?”

“You won’t have to,” Len says, amused by Mick’s inability to believe his own good fortune; his amusement swiftly fades as Mick moves down, his hot tongue running over Len’s collarbone, his chest, his stomach – Len gasps and arches up involuntarily when Mick’s hand closes over him, warm and hot and amazing, and throws back his head, banging it on the soft mattress, crying out when Mick replaces his hand with his mouth. He’s never had this before, either, though he’d done the act himself; Mick seems to enjoy it, laving his tongue up and down the length of it, flicking out to lick the tip, things Len had never bothered with. 

Len reaches down and grabs at Mick’s head, urging him back down, but Mick seems intent on taking his time. He opens his mouth wider and pushes down, humming with pleasure when he finds he can take all of Len into his mouth at once, and the feeling of it makes Len thrash. “Off, off, _off_ ,” he chants, his body rebelling against it but his mind hot for more than this. 

Mick pulls off, his vulpine grin making clear that he realizes that Len isn’t demanding for him to leave. He slips his hand around Len’s cock instead, fingers now coated with some clear liquid, oozing down his fingers. “Something to say?” he asks, chuckling as Len bucks into his hand. “Was that not good for you?”

“ _More_ ,” Len demands, hands knotting in the sheets beside him. 

Mick keeps one hand on Len’s cock, moving up and down in slow, torturous movements that are pleasurable but not nearly as good as Mick’s mouth, and he slides his other hand down. Len licks his lips and Mick’s eyes fix on his face, watching greedily as Len’s eyes go a little wide at the unfamiliar feeling of a finger slipping inside. 

Len squirms a little, trying to adjust, and any discomfort is quickly erased by the slow pump of Mick’s hand. “I think I like that,” he says thoughtfully, and Mick’s hips jerk a little forward, his cock dripping onto the sheets. 

“You’re a menace, saying things like that,” Mick says with a laugh, starting to move his hand a little, in and out in small movements, then he curls his finger and Len wiggles more, some little burst of pleasure shooting off inside of him. 

“I like _that_ ,” Len says emphatically, and smiles up at Mick. “Do I get more?”

Mick laughs. “More, huh?”

“I’ve heard stories,” Len sniffs, then grins. “So are you going to fuck me or what?”

“Not tonight,” Mick says, lips quirking up. “I wouldn’t be able to control myself, and until that growth spurt you’re due comes in, you’re going to need a lot more prep than I’m capable of right now.” His grin widens and his eyes scan Len’s body. “I’m going to have so much fun teaching you everything your body can do,” he purrs. “I’m going to make you ride my fingers till you squirm just looking at them, get you good and used to them, and then, only then, when you’re _begging_ for it, swearing you’re really ready, _that’s_ when I’m going to fuck you.”

Len shivers in anticipation. It sounds _amazing_ , the way Mick describes it; hardly like waiting at all. More an extended tease, an exercise in pleasure. “Is that what we’re going to do tonight, then? Just fingers?” he still pouts, or at least pretends to. “I wanted you between my legs, Mick.”

Mick licks his lips. “Oh, you’ll get it,” he says, pulling his finger out – Len mewls in disappointment – and spreading the thick liquid, which he scoops out of a jar floating handily near the bed, between Len’s thighs. “Turn over,” he instructs, and Len complies, lying on his side.

Mick fits himself in behind him, a warm presence at his back, and he slides his thick, heavy cock between Len’s thighs. “Now close ‘em,” he murmurs in Len’s ear. “Squeeze ‘em tight for me, darling, you can do it…”

Len pushes his legs together and watches, fascinated as Mick slowly starts rocking back and forth between them, his ruddy skin a contrast to Len’s wan and sunless color, his hand wrapped around Len’s hip to help keep balance as he thrusts between Len’s thighs. Len feels his own cock jerk in sympathy, just watching it; it feels good, his thighs slick and giving, Mick hot and thick and heavy, and he has to swallow at the sensation of it. 

Len reaches down and wraps his fingers around him and Mick both, and Mick groans behind him, hips starting to piston faster. Len bites his lower lip in concentration, starting to move his hand, and he feels Mick’s lips press against the back of his head. “Just like that, Len,” Mick says. “Just like that.”

“Leonard,” Len offers. “My real name is Leonard Snart.”

Mick bucks sharply, and he abruptly rolls Len onto his hands and knees, Len careful to keep his legs locked together, Mick hissing, “Mine, mine, _mine_ ,” as he did it. His thrusts become harder, more powerful, less controlled, his body braced above Len, boxing him in on all sides, until with a grunt he’s spilling on the sheets underneath Len. Len whimpers, feeling Mick all around him, Mick’s cock still trapped between his thighs, and then Mick’s hand comes to him and he’s spilling too, spurting on the sheets where Mick has already come, crying his pleasure aloud. 

By the time he finishes, head spinning delightfully from the sheer pleasure of it all, and falls down to the sheets, they’re already clean and warm from a quick gesture by Mick.

“I could get used to this,” Len slurs a little, his eyes starting to slide shut.

“I hope you do,” Mick rumbles, wrapping his arms around Len. “‘cause I’m never letting you go.”

When they wake, they bathe together in the steaming pool that curls outside of Mick’s room, a private grove just for their use, shaded by willows, and when Mick dresses, he dress in his armor as Len watches greedily, memorizing how each part of Mick is clad by invisible hands so that one day he can have the pleasure of sliding on Mick’s gloves and buckling on the armor onto Mick’s body himself. 

The fiery helm is the last piece to go on, large and ominous, frightening no more now that Len knows who’s underneath. Mick offers his hand to Len, who takes it, and Mick leads him out to where the endless hordes of the Hunt are assembled, night having fallen once more. They extend so far back in their teeming masses that Len cannot see the end, dark creatures of all shapes and sizes, and at the front there is Mick’s stallion, waiting and stamping the ground, eager to find its prey, and beside that stallion there is Lisa, still clad in gold and white, riding the kelpie she had been teasing earlier, a splash of raspberry red on her lips that makes her look far fiercer than her years. 

Mick helps Len onto the stallion first, and then climbs upon himself, settling in behind Len’s back. “I summon thee now to ride,” he cries out, his voice resonant under the helm, the words familiar, ones that Len knows from stories by the fire in the village, the invocation of the Wild Hunt, and the Hunt roars back, their voices shaking the ground. “We have fine prey in store for us tonight,” Mick says to his armies. “Prey that will hide behind iron gates, but we will tear them to the ground and smash them beneath our feet if that’s what it takes.”

His helm dips and he catches Len’s hand in his. “Only the best,” he says, and Len knows his teeth are bared, bloodthirsty and happy, under his helm, “for my new consort.”

The Hunt roars again, even louder this time, and Len sees even Lisa applauding frantically and whooping for joy, and he smiles, nodding his agreement. And why shouldn’t he have the best, too, if Mick wants to give it to him?

Mick drops his hands and takes up the reins. “Now,” he cries out. “ _Ride!_ ”

His stallion rears up, pressing Len back into Mick’s chest, and they take to the sky.

The Hunt rides.

**Author's Note:**

> This is very much an example of "what the muse wants, the muse gets" because I wrote it and I still have no idea where it came from.


End file.
